Chapter 15 – Scar Tissue
"Ever the poet, Jandau would compliment me on each scar I collected in the Abyss. 'Every scar marks a crossroads you have boldly stepped over, my little flame,' he would say. I never believed that. In the Abyss there was only ever one direction to travel. Always fighting. Always up." –Nina Whitesun, Memoire of a Warbitch
A gasp of shock and pain hissed through Ashura's lips as she gripped at the arrow that had buried itself in her right breast, punching through chainmail and padding like it was nothing. Strength fled her legs, and she barely noticed the impact when she sunk to her knees, eyes on her best friend as the girl emotionlessly knocked another arrow. Was this it? Killed by a charmed Imoen of all things? Garrick stood nearby, with the same glazed look in his eyes. His crossbow released and the bolt flew over Ashura's head, followed by a wooden thunk.
Her swords were so heavy in her hands, and she found she could not hold on. They tumbled from her fingers and her arms followed, slumping outward.
Somewhere far away Branwen was letting out a long, throaty battle cry. Somewhere farther away Xan was chanting something.
The bowstring stretched and Ashura's hands just rested there on the floor. Blood was pouring down her chest and her body felt so very, very heavy. Poor Imoen, she thought. She's never going to forgive herself for this. She wanted to get up and fight, but there was just no strength to tap into. Accepting that, she wanted to at least tell her friend that she forgave her. She wanted to say 'It's okay Ims, I'll always love you, no matter what.' All that came out of her mouth was a choked gasp.
A blur of armor and golden hair passed by and slammed into Imoen, knocking the bow from her hands and sending the girl tumbling to the floor. At the same time Branwen's glowing hammer swung around and struck Garrick in the stomach, doubling him over. There was a glow about the entire priestess's body, and her strength and speed seemed unnatural.
Ignoring the fallen puppets Branwen pushed on in search of the puppeteer. Another swipe from her hammer knocked the nearby privacy screen aside and finally revealed Tranzig. The mage wore only a black silk robe belted at the waste and his long, dark hair was disheveled. Apparently Imoen and Garrick really had caught him in his sleep, but somehow he had gotten a step ahead of them.
Branwen's hammer swung around again, but it struck some sort of barrier and bounced harmlessly off in a burst of light. Tranzig simply grinned and stretched a finger out, aiming at her.
Before the mage could launch into his next spell Xan's chant came to a crescendo and the room was filled with a blinding white light. When it finally faded to spots before everyone's eyes Imoen and Garrick were blinking heavily and looking about in confusion, and Branwen was swinging her hammer again. This time there was no barrier and the blow struck Tranzig squarely in the stomach with a cracking sound that must have been ribs. He doubled over and fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen and gasping desperately for air.
With a triumphant roar Branwen raised her hammer again, high over the mage's head. Before she could bring it down the shimmering edge of Xan's moonblade pressed against the underside of the weapon. "We need him alive," Xan stated evenly. "Please tend to our dying ally over there," he went on, pointing at Ashura. "I'll tend to Tranzig."
Branwen growled but she did as she was told and stomped over to her wounded companion. Taking a deep breath the priestess began a healing prayer, her gloved right hand glowing blue while she gripped the arrow that protruded from Ashura's chest. Without warning the priestess yanked the shaft away and unleashed a torrent of blood and pain. Before she lost consciousness the scream that leapt from Ashura's throat must have awakened the entire inn.
"I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." It was Imoen's voice that she awakened to. The girl was hovering close, and sounded on the verge of tears. Winching, Ashura realized that Imoen had been saying those words for some time now. She had foggy memories of stumbling forward on the street, her body propped up between Branwen and Imoen, weak but no longer bleeding. All the while Imoen had been whispering 'I'm sorry.'
Reaching a fumbling hand out Ashura weakly patted her friend. "It's alright," she managed in a cracked voice. There was faint light somewhere in the room, and Imoen was a fuzzy blur above. Ashura's head pounded and she felt dizzy and weak as a feather, but at least the pain in her chest was just a dull ache now. "You know Ims," Ashura added, "you managed to sucker-punch me twice in one night. I'm impressed."
"I'm not apologizing for the first time," Imoen whispered, mock-sternness in her voice. Their hands found each other and exchanged a squeeze. "And if I ever get charmed again don't hesitate to attack. I'll understand!"
"Hesitate if you're asked to attack unarmed men, who might throw spells at you. Don't hesitate if your best friend is attacking you with a glazed look in her eyes. It's all so confusing," Ashura complained.
Imoen scoffed. "Yeah, I guess magic can make life more complicated sometimes," she admitted.
Attempting to sit up made Ashura wince and slide right back down. Not that her bed was particularly comfortable; she lay atop an old straw mattress that smelled sour and mildewed. There were no sheets, just someone's bedroll that had been tossed over her, and her boots and the top portion of her armor and clothing had been removed. Bandages were wrapped and tied to her chest, a faint ochre leaking through where the arrow had struck. As she shifted on the bed a bit she realized that her back and bottom were terribly stiff. A skirt of leather with metal strips in it is not the most comfortable thing to sleep in.
"So we made it to the abandoned house?" she asked as she glanced around. The whole room smelled musty and rotten, and it was lit by a single hooded lantern that Ashura recognized from Imoen's pack.
"Yes," Xan's solemn voice stated from somewhere in the gloom.
"Some Flaming Fist guards tried to stop us," Imoen added, "but Xan told them he was 'arresting this man on official Greycloak business' and they got this dazed look in their eyes and said it was okay."
Xan shook his head. "It was a very near thing," he said. "If there had been more than two guards or if they had been less susceptible to my spells we could have been declared outlaws. That's a most uncomfortable position for outlaw hunters."
"So was it worth it?" Ashura asked as she forced herself up and flung her bare feet over the edge of the bed.
"Perhaps," Xan said with a noncommittal shrug. "I have obtained the information I came for, disappointing as it is."
Garrick sat in a threadbare chair in the corner of the room, and at the sight of Ashura's bandage-clad upper half he shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes.
Around the corner in the house's second room Tranzig sat slumped forward on a stool, his wrists tied behind his back and his ankles bound to the stool's legs. Sweat glued his hair to his forehead and face, and his features were scrunched up in pain from the broken ribs, but he looked unharmed otherwise.
The room seemed to have once served as a kitchen and lauder, but the shelves were bare and cobwebs hung thick. At the center of the room a trapdoor sat, held shut by a massive and heavy-looking padlock. Branwen leaned against a nearby wall, her face stony.
"Now," Xan said dryly as he approached Tranzig, "just to make sure we have everything clear, and for the benefit of our new guest, we might as well go over this one more time."
"We might as well," Tranzig said in a defeated tone.
"He was somewhat resistant at first," Xan told Ashura, "but a few suggestion spells got him talking, and once he knew he could not keep secrets from us the rest came. The man is a simple mercenary, not big on loyalty."
"True enough," Tranzig grunted. "Was hoping some silence could buy my life, but I guess it's forfeit now." Xan did not respond and the words hung in the air for a time. Tranzig smirked a bit. "Guess I deserve it. I've flung my share of mind-control spells around." His defiant smirk turned into a leer and he looked up at Imoen. "Just regret I never had time to tell the redhead to take her clothes off. Always the best part of an enchantment spell."
"I'm not interested in your perversions," Xan stated. "Only your relationship with Tazok."
The bound mage nodded. "He hired us Black Talons about half a year back. Already had a bit of a bandit army then but you can never have too much eh?"
"And what other forces constitute this army?"
"The Chill hobgoblin band and some little tribe of rowdy gnolls. Don't know their name. The gnolls are unruly little bastards but the Chill are a good lot. Tough as nails and really disciplined. They don't act like your typical goblin tribe either. Got women hobs holding spears and marching in the phalanx, instead of raising babes naked in some cave. They're a fun lot to be around too. I doubt you've ever been with a hobgoblin, but boy can they go wild-"
Xan groaned. "I said I wasn't interested in your perversions. I only care about your army and its makeup."
A mock look of hurt came over Tranzig's face. "Hey, it's not a perversion," he said. "It's being egalitarian. You too snooty to bed a hobgoblin? Are scrawny, stuck-up little elf women the only thing good enough for you?"
Ashura burst out laughing, then instantly regretted it and clutched at the wound on her chest. When she had regained her composure she turned to Xan and asked: "You realize he's just buying time right?"
"I realize," Xan said with a sigh.
"I could maybe take a knife to him and…" Ashura offered.
Xan shook his head. "That's not necessary. I like to keep these things tidy. In fact one of the reasons I trained in the magic of the mind was to ferret out clear answers for my order. I was just hoping not to waste another spell." Before Tranzig could deliver a quip Xan hummed a few arcane words and gestured towards the prisoner with his fingers. Tranzig shook his head briefly but soon his eyes grew emotionless.
"Once again," Xan said, "tell me the composition of Tazok's army."
The prisoner responded in an dry, mechanical fashion. "Us Black Talon Mercenaries, the Chill Hobgoblins, a band of gnolls and a lot of petty thugs. I think the bulk of his army is lowlifes from Baldur's Gate along with pirates and deserters from the Flaming Fist. Sometimes they also press caravan guards into service when they take a prize. I don't know numbers, beyond the fact that there's three hundred Black Talons paid to serve Tazok and way more of the chill and the rabble."
"So where do we find Tazok and this army?"
"Somewhere in the Wood of Sharp Teeth. I can't tell you more specifically. The last time I saw the ogre was months ago, and the camp has moved around since then. Most of the bandits are up there in the Sharp Teeth. They avoid the Cloakwood generally, since it's full of monsters, and the road runs beside the Sharp Teeth at the best ambush spots anyway. Most of the bandits are there, but the forest is a big place."
Xan glanced over at Branwen and she nodded. "Once again," Branwen noted, "he's telling the truth. He was even telling the truth about bedding hobgoblins," she added with a smirk.
"So where can we go to find Tazok?" Xan asked, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer.
"For the past month," Tranzig replied, still emotionless, "I've been taking messages to Mulahey and then to two meeting places at the edge of the Sharp Teeth. I meet with Black Talons in Larswood, which is this little forest on the eastern edge of the bigger woods, near the Friendly Arm. We meet by a ruined tower southeast of some big standing stones. The other spot is in Peldvale, right between the four little lakes."
"And you can tell us nothing else about the location of the bandits?" Xan asked.
Tranzig shook his head. "They're constantly moving. You would be too if the Flaming Fist was always on you." The glazed look was lifting from his eyes. "I've just been delivering messages and enjoying my pay in fine inns. It was a pretty sweet job until you people came along. And that's the truth. That rough looking wench over there can attest to that." He nodded towards Branwen.
"He tells the truth," she admitted.
"So unless you have some other questions," Tranzig said, "that's about all I have to tell you. Don't suppose you're going to let me go now?"
"You know I never promised that," Xan said, sadness in his voice. He took a step closer.
"Look," Tranzig said, "I promise I won't-" His words were cut off when Xan's moonblade flashed forward with surprising speed and plunged directly into his chest, piercing his heart. There was a look of shock and agony on the mage's face as the life drained away from it, then he shuddered a moment and went still. It was quick and clean, though the smell of voided bowls and urine detracted from the 'clean' part a bit.
Imoen gasped and put her hand to her mouth. "Why did you do that?" she finally managed to ask while Xan cleaned his sword.
"He would have done the same to you," Xan stated, "only he would have done worse first. You heard what he said about enchantment spells."
"That doesn't make it right."
"Not right," Xan agreed, "but the correct course of action. No matter what promises he made us the man could have easily tipped off his fellow Black Talons. My mission is to insure that iron begins flowing to Everska once again, and I will do what it takes to accomplish that." He turned to Ashura and gestured towards the dead body slumped on the stool. "Can you and Branwen manage to carry that?" Garrick was leaning back in a corner, a sickly look on his face.
Both women nodded and silent grabbed the corpse by the arms. Xan gestured, making it clear that their destination was the trapdoor. The gestures became more than pointing, and with an arcane word the padlock was surrounded by a faint white glow. The device silently came apart and rose a few feet into the air as the elf concentrated on it.
"This part will be a bit unpleasant," Xan said. Of course his usual tone made everything sound unpleasant. "You see, this house is abandoned because the cellar was overrun with rather…large spiders. You will want to toss the body down there and shut the door as quickly as possible."
"Uh…" Ashura muttered, uncomfortably aware of her bare feet near the cellar door. "Great."
With a kick Branwen flung the trapdoor open, and somewhere in the darkness below Ashura heard a sharp, crinkly sound. Then the darkness started moving.
They tossed the body in a hurry and instantly bent down to throw the door shut. As Xan used his magic to reattach the lock with a satisfying click Ashura shuddered and took several long steps back. For once she was glad to not be wearing her darkvision helmet. She'd be happy if she never had to see the sort of creature that was chittering and crawling down there in the dark.
She went into the front room to dress completely, strapping her swordbelt on, and then the five quietly left the abandoned house. Outside beyond the shuttered windows it was daytime, but thankfully there were no townsfolk nearby to give them odd looks as they closed the door and made their way. Ashura gave the little abandoned shack one last backward look and shook her head. Sleeping above a den of giant spiders! And the house wasn't even hidden and out of the way. It was on the same block as Thunderhammer's smithy and a quick walk down the street from the Jovial Juggler. She'd never considered herself squeamish, but giant spiders…yuck.
"So," Imoen asked Branwen in a whisper. "Was there any sort of family resemblance?"
The priestess shrugged. "The hair perhaps. 'Twas hardly any sort of satisfying vengeance, but I'm happy to see the world rid of one more mage who hides behind cowardly tricks."
They walked for a time, unsure of where to go, until Imoen led them to the Jovial Juggler, saying something about how she hoped they were still serving morningfeast. As it turned out it was actually a bit past noon, but there was plenty of food cooking. Ashura ended up breaking the day's fast on a greasy sausage, sour bread and a lovely dish of spinach and carrots smothered in honey-butter, all washed down with a strong cup of tea. Despite thoughts of giant spiders and watching a man die a few minutes earlier she had quite the appetite. Must have been the blood loss.
"So," Ashura asked between bites, "I suppose you'll be heading up to the Wood of Sharp Teeth?"
Xan frowned at the plate before him. He had been moving bits of food around with his fork but had yet to taste anything. "That is what my mission demands next, I suppose. If my partner still lived it would be easier. He was a skilled tracker in the forest, and aided by my spells he could scout the bandits out easily. A shame we weren't so cautious in the mines. But going alone into a forest bristling with bandits…"
"You continue talking the cowards talk," Branwen noted, her mouth full of food.
"Yes," Xan replied. "I suppose I have little choice but to walk right into absolutely certain death and end my mission right there."
Branwen didn't acknowledge the sarcasm. Instead she slapped the elf on the back, rocking him forward and bellowed: "Exactly! Mayhap we should come along with you. A hoard of bandits just waiting to be crushed. Tis the stuff of songs!"
"He's fishing for our help anyway," Ashura noted.
"I would never presume-" Xan protested.
"It's fine," Ashura cut him off. "I appreciate that you're using guilt as a weapon instead of those charm spells of yours. As long as you never point those at us we don't have a problem." After a bite of sausage she added: "I don't care much for the idea of walking into certain death though."
"I never knew you to be a coward," Branwen scoffed.
"Bravery and suicide are separate things," Ashura retorted, "which is what Xan is trying to explain to you. Not to mention: why should I-"
"Because this is our fight, Shura," Imoen interrupted.
Ashura opened her mouth to object but Imoen quieted her with a gesture and reached forward. "It's our fight," she repeated, "and I'll show you why." Leaning closer Imoen carefully pinched a piece of Ashura's chainmail near where the arrow had punched through the links. The steel around the puncture was stained a rusty black and many of the links were bent and broken. Imoen managed to carefully pull a few loose bits of chain away from the tunic and held them up. Placing a link between her fingertips she squeezed and the brittle metal snapped.
"Bloody Hells," Ashura complained. "And I just had that armor mended."
"Mended with tainted steel, it looks like," Imoen pointed out.
"Point taken," Ashura stated sullenly. "Seems there's no escaping this damned iron shortage. And it's very nearly killed me. Again." She munched on a bite of bread before continuing. "I still don't see what we can do about it though."
"Aye," Branwen agreed. "You're most likely right. We're a fine enough warband, but if there's an army in the wood it would best be met with an army." She looked at Xan. "Your grey-cloaked elves wouldn't deign to send reinforcements, would they?"
Xan shook his head. "I doubt that very much."
As they spoke Ashura stared off into the distance. After a time she clicked her tongue and muttered: "Hm."
"What is it?" Imoen asked.
Standing up, Ashura walked around the table and over to the wall she had been facing throughout the meal. It was the section of the common room that served as an informal spot for hanging messages. Nailed to the wood was a bounty notice for some priest named Bassilus, a parchment advertising fresh meat pies baked daily by someone named Nessy, a much larger and lavish advertisement touting the thrills of some brothel and casino in Baldur's Gate called the Blushing Mermaid, and a news pamphlet telling of the many wonders found across the Trackless Sea in the 'New World.' Ashura ran her fingers across a much plainer white poster near the center of the wall.
"You've got an idea?" Imoen asked, reading over Ashura's shoulder.
"Possibly," Ashura replied. "A way we can travel to the Wood of Sharp Teeth with at least a small army at our backs, fight some bandits. Hmm…and maybe even make a little money."
The poster read: "Seeking Rough and Tumble Men and Women for a Rough and Tumble Job! Kagain and Associates Mercenary Company is looking for swordsmen, archers, divine channelers and spell-slingers to protect iron caravans bound for Baldur's Gate. No slouching pugs need apply!"
Five days later and many leagues to the south Ashura awakened in the Nashkel inn. As she rolled onto her back, blinked away the dawn light and stretched, she wished she could stay beneath the sheets a bit longer. This was likely the last chance they'd have to sleep on a soft bed for a good while. Unfortunately Captain Kagain seemed to keep a tight schedule and they had precious little time after dawn to prepare for the journey north.
So Ashura pushed the blanket aside, rolled out of bed and forced herself to stand up. This wasn't the room they had shared with Khalid and Jaheira a few tendays ago (Xan and Garrick had actually been given that one,) but it looked similar enough and was just about as cramped, with Ashura, Branwen and Imoen sharing a bed and few amenities to speak of.
The room did at least boast a large upright mirror, standing next to a crude wooden chest were the washing basin and a bucket of water rested. After relieving herself over the chamber pot and splashing some water from the basin over her face and body Ashura went to the mirror. One last chance to get presentable before marching through the woods and sleeping on the ground for days.
Facing the mirror and turning from side to side she examined herself. Her jet black hair was chaotic and tangled from sleep but a few firm strokes with a comb of carved bone began to tame it. Straight and not terribly thick, her hair had always been manageable, at least compared to some of her roommates in Candlekeep who seemed to spend hours combing the tangles out. Over the course of the journey her hair had grown a bit, coming down almost to the center of her back. Perhaps soon it would be time to cut it down to a more manageable shoulder-length. For now she bunched it up, twisted it behind her head and tied it back with a thin leather band.
There was hardly a hint of fat on her body beyond her modest breasts, thanks partly to her training and mostly to the hard month she had spent on the road. 'Too skinny' old Winthrop would probably say, and there would be some truth to that. She had enjoyed a feast whenever she had the chance but the soft days spent at inns were vastly outnumbered by day when she had supped on light rations of salted meat and dried nuts and grains. There was at least a little meat on her bones, especially in the legs where she always seemed to feel a dull ache from the endless hikes.
Her short, upturned nose was bent a bit from being broken and reset several times. It wasn't badly mangled, but it was definitely something a person would notice looking at her face straight on. Beyond that her face was free of scars thus far, though the same couldn't be said for the rest of her. Healing magic had worked wonders on the wounds she had taken since leaving home, but many of the major injuries had left their marks.
There was a semicircle of small, raised scars on her shoulder, a pattern made by the deep bite of a gnoll, and below that on her right arm near the elbow there was a similar, smaller pattern made by a wolf's bite. Her most recent wound from Imoen's arrow had left a pale, circular mark on the outer portion of her right breast, and on the other side of her chest at the ribs there were two faint streaks, the result of kobold swords or daggers. Below that along her belly she bore two more scars: one long and prominent slash mark just above her navel from the gnoll chieftain's halberd and another beneath that which was barely visible; a nick made by the dwarf bounty hunter's axe.
Turning around and examining her back revealed more half-healed wounds: a long gouge between her shoulder blades where another gnoll's halberd had struck, a smaller but uglier scar where a throwing dagger had bitten deep, and a raised, circular puncture mark left by a kobold's arrow. All that had been collected in a bit over a month of adventuring, and there were likely more scars to come. Ah well, better to be marred and alive than a beautiful corpse.
By now Branwen was up and about and Imoen was complaining from the bed. After dressing and dragging her friend through the morning routine Ashura strapped her armor and swordbelt on. At the Nashkel smithy the day before she had once again purchased a suit of chainmail, which the smith insisted was forged from fresh ore out of the mine. She had misgivings, especially about paying the price he demanded for 'untainted' armor, but she would need everything she could to avoid bandit arrows. She had also added a few more protective accessories: steel shoulder guards that went over the chainmail and some soft black wool tights to wear under her skirt. The hosiery had been Imoen's idea. Protection from brambles, and from the ogling eyes of all the strange men she was about to share a camp with.
Fully equipped, Ashura went about gathering her possessions and stuffing them into her pack. She was careful when she slid the book she had been reading the night before into the leather satchel. It was one of the more novel bits of loot they had found at the gnoll fortress: a sturdy manual entitled the "Tome of Leadership and Influence." Between the leather-bound covers were thorough instructions on how to command, influence (and manipulate,) people through words and body language. It had never been clear who the 'leader' of their little warband was these days, but the others tended to defer to her, so she figured she could use some tips. Of course for the next tenday or two she would be taking orders from Captain Kagain.
After joining up with Xan and Garrick and wolfing down a quick morningfeast of oat porridge and tea the five companions stepped out into the balmy morning air and headed south along the river. The caravan was setting up on the edge of town. Most of the teamsters and mercenaries had camped out by the carts the night before, and were in the process of waking and striking the tents.
Oxen and a few horses lazily grazed in a nearby field, and the drovers were beginning to gather and herd them towards the wide cargo wagons, two by two. At the nearby river several of the oxen drank, and three of the male teamsters bathed a good distance from the beasts. Ashura slowed her pace a bit to give them a look: they were all relatively young looking; just a bit windburnt compared to your usual salty and weather-worn laborer. They were all a bit on the skinny side too, but not too badly proportioned. Especially the blonde one. He's very well proportioned.
They caught her watching and smiled up from the water, two of the workers making some lewd gestures. Ashura made a gesture right back, pantomiming gripping something (or two somethings,) in one hand and slicing with the other. This just brought on guffaws and more gestures. Not very shy fellows, but then again all the shy teamsters probably wouldn't stand naked and knee deep in water in full view of the camp. This'll be an interesting trip.
All told there were ten carts, most of uniform size and covered with simple grey canvas, plus a large horse-drawn carriage. That was the home of the caravan's owner, a flamboyant young man named Eddard Silvershield. They had briefly met the lad a day earlier when he walked around inspecting the goods and generally trying to look important. The nobleman was always trailed by two men who appeared to be a bodyguard and a manservant, as well as a very underdressed blonde woman that Ashura guessed was some sort of high-cost whore.
Eddard was nowhere to be seen this morning but the captain was present, a grumpy look on his face (did dwarves have any other expression?) as he paced up and down the row of carts and tents. He appeared to be a bit old but very sturdy, his long black beard salted and streaked with grey. Kagain wore a suit of fine scalemail armor, and under his thickly muscled arm he carried a dwarven helmet with elaborate steel wings on either side.
It wasn't long after Ashura's company had arrived that the captain put his fingers to his mouth, whistled loudly and shouted: "Alright you rabble that calls yerselves mercenaries! Form up!" Kagain had a low, scratchy voice that sounded like it had seen too much pipe smoke and spirits, but he had a skill for making it carry.
They formed a line along the road. At least eventually. Some of the armored men and women instantly snapped to attention while others scurried around like headless chickens. It showed who was a green hireling and who had been in some sort of military service right away. Imoen and Garrick were among the scrambling chickens, but Ashura had drilled enough times with the guards in Candlekeep to know how to stand at attention.
"Alright," the captain barked out. "If you're most competent with a bow or other long-range weapons step forward and form a line here. If you're more skilled with melee weapons stay where you are. Spell-slingers step to this spot. I know who you priests are," he pointed at Branwen and a tall armored man, "and you can stay with the melee fighters. And if you can't fight with a bow, a sword, or spells," he gestured with his thumb, "get the fuck out."
Only Xan and a dark-haired woman in scruffy traveler's clothes volunteered as 'spell-slingers' but the rest broke down somewhat evenly. No doubt Kagain had planned it that way when he recruited the guards. Next the captain went down the line and paired each archer with a warrior. Ashura's group was not split up, but she did get partnered with Garrick. Finally Kagain assigned each partnered team to a wagon and went over the rules for the upcoming journey. Ashura was pleased to learn that her assigned cart would be driven by a pair of female teamsters (a chubby, freckled woman with bright red hair and a scrawny, dark skinned brunette who the caravaners called 'the sisters' as some sort of inside joke,) and not any of the bathing guys. She had a feeling those three would get insufferable fast.
Eventually the mercenaries were dismissed and went to their carts to prepare for the journey. At one point Imoen took Ashura aside and gave her friend a dramatic pout. "You got partnered with Garrick," she noted. "No fair!"
"I think the captain knows what he's doing," Ashura whispered back with a sly smile. "You may actually have some guarding to do, and you'll do it better without acting like a lovelorn puppy."
"Hey!" Imoen pulled a face.
"Your secret's safe with me," Ashura said. "And I promise I won't make a move on the boy." She didn't add what an easy promise that was to make. The jovial pretty-boy had already begun to grate on her nerves a bit on the journey from Beregost.
All in all there were twenty-seven mercenaries, including the captain, the two mages, and two elven scouts, though they felt stretched a bit thin guarding the wagons in pairs. It wasn't exactly an army but Ashura hoped it was better than the five of them just blindly marching into the Wood of Sharp Teeth.
Within the hour the oxen were lined up in their harnesses and the crack of whips and creak of wooden wheels filled the air. Despite the elevation the air already felt heavy and muggy, and it was threatening to be a gruelingly hot summer day on the first leg of the caravan's journey.
Author's Note: Hmm. Coyly watching the guys go skinnydipping seems to be a running theme in this story.
Some of you may be thinking that Ashura's plan to join a caravan that's slow-moving and loaded with bandit-bait before going into a bandit infested forest might not be the best idea. You may be right. What can I say; wisdom was Ashura's dump-stat. On the other hand I kind of like the idea of going into a dangerous area with lots of heavily armed cover. It's kind of the opposite of the typical Bioware "You have to go in with a small group because it can uh…move quicker or something," plot.
Also some of you may find Xan's actions in this chapter a bit shocking. Sorry about that. Executing a prisoner seems like the sort of thing a coldblooded secret agent-type character would do, and Xan's essentially an Everskan (not so secret) agent.
For those wondering, Nina Whitesun is a character from J. Robert King's Planescape books. I loved those books, and just felt like throwing a few (non spoilery,) references to them here and there.
Oh woops, an additional note: To those wondering why Branwen isn't more eager to crush Tranzig's head I should point out that in my slightly altered version of events it wasn't Tranzig who turned Branwen to stone. My fault for changing the story (I missed an opportunity to write a big dramatic moment of vengeance!) Of course my version of Branwen is still very eager to crush the heads of mages (especially ones who use dirty tricks,) for obvious reasons. I went back and added a few lines to this chapter and the previous one (hate to do that but I don't think it's a big change,) to make that more clear.